


we're men of snow (we melt one day)

by SomeEnchantedEve



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Pre-Series, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-15
Updated: 2014-01-15
Packaged: 2018-01-08 19:30:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1136508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SomeEnchantedEve/pseuds/SomeEnchantedEve
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Brandon dies at the start of the Rebellion, he leaves behind his wife Catelyn and infant son Robb. Much to Catelyn's chagrin, it falls to Ned to come to Winterfell and help his good-sister raise the next Lord of Winterfell. </p><p>A pre-series AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we're men of snow (we melt one day)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [averita](https://archiveofourown.org/users/averita/gifts).



> Written for averita for the FandomAid fundraiser! :D Thank you for donating, dear, and thank you especially for basically giving me free reign! I did try and sneak a bit of one of your prompts in at one part. ;-) 
> 
> The title comes from Ingrid Michaelson's song, "Men of Snow"

Ned does not know his good-sister very well – he had met her exactly once before the war, on the day of her wedding to Brandon. Standing and waiting at the gate of Winterfell as he approaches, she does not look as he remembered. She had been a beautiful bride, with sparkling eyes and flowers woven through her rich red hair – the very picture of a summer maiden, laughing and bright as though the sunshine would never fade from her life, as though she would always be young and glad. 

But winter has come for Lady Catelyn as certainly as it has come for Ned and for the entire north, and the woman who meets him resembles the girl from the Riverlands not at all. She is bundled in furs against the cold, her hood drawn far down over her head. Her face is pale and gaunt, with dark circles under her eyes, as though she has not slept in a fortnight. Her grief ages her, so that it is only when he takes her hand to kiss it and he feels her fingers tremble in his grip that Ned is reminded that she is only a young girl, alone in a strange land. He glances up into her face, and notices that her lips are chapped and red, as though she has nipped them nearly to pieces. 

Widowhood, it would seem, does not suit Catelyn Stark. 

He brushes his lips over her knuckles, a whisper of a gesture. 

“My lady,” Ned says heavily, releasing her hand. “I am sorry for your loss.” 

Lady Catelyn nods stiffly at him, instinctively gathering her cloak tighter around herself. “And for yours as well, ser,” she answers. 

\--

The Lord of Winterfell is a babe – a robust, boisterous babe, but a babe all the same. 

Ned’s nephew is only eight moons old. Little Robb had still been in his mother’s belly when Brandon rode south in search of Lyanna and the war began, and now Ned’s brother will never know his son. Even now, Ned can see Brandon in the babe – in Robb’s quick change of tempers that take him from tears to laughing in the blink of an eye, in his fearlessness as he explores the world around him crawling on hands and knees. 

“Brandon would want you to help Robb,” Benjen tells him, as they sit in the nursery and watch the boys play. Robb and Jon had taken to one another quickly, and despite the sorrow that cloaks the castle like a shroud, there is something peaceful in sitting and watching the two babes together, something small that still feels like home. “He told me, before he left, that if anything should happen…” Benjen’s eyes fill with tears, and he breaks off, blinking them away. Ned’s youngest brother has had to grow up so quickly, be the Stark in Winterfell while they were all away, that sometimes Ned has trouble remembering that he is only three-and-ten – still more of a child than a man. 

“I know,” Ned answers quietly, with a heavy hand on his brother’s shoulder. Maester Luwin’s raven had said much the same. Robert had wanted Ned to join his Kingsguard, but after losing Brandon and Lyanna both, Ned had needed to return to Winterfell. That it had been Brandon’s wish for him to guide his infant son had only solidified Ned’s decision that the north is where he belongs. “I will do all I can.” 

He passes much of those first few days in the nursery, sitting with his last remaining brother and the two babes. He knows soon enough he will have to call a council of the lords of the north, knows that they are awaiting word from Winterfell, knows that soon enough, he will have to do his duty. Yet Ned is struck with the overwhelming desire to catch his breath for a moment, and there is nowhere better to do so than in the company of the family that remains to him, with the burbling laughter of the children echoing off the walls. 

He rarely sees Lady Catelyn in those days, and when Nan tells him that she visits with Robb every day, Ned begins to wonder if his good-sister is deliberately avoiding him. When he starts bringing Jon to play with his cousin in the afternoons, rather than the mornings, in hopes of encountering her, she greets him coolly and eyes both of them suspiciously. She lets him put Jon down next to Robb, but she presses her mouth into a thin line that suggests that she does not approve. She refers to her son as ‘Lord Robb,’ which Ned thinks is a rather grandiose way to refer to a boy who has only recently discovered his toes. 

“She is frightened of you,” Benjen tells him one morning, speaking plainly, when Ned inquires about their good-sister. Ned knows that Benjen sees Lady Catelyn more frequently, and he cannot comprehend why she would avoid one Stark brother and not the other. They have spent so little time in one another’s company; she has not had the time to grow to dislike him already. “She fears that you will seize the lordship for yourself.” Benjen’s eyes wander to the babes on the floor. “She is afraid you want to be Lord of Winterfell, and Jon after you.” 

“She does not even know me,” Ned seethes, immediately infuriated at the suggestion that he would seek to usurp his own nephew, the only part of his brother left behind. “And she dares to suggest that I am capable of such treachery?” 

Benjen shrugs. “She does not say such in so many words, but I can tell.” Ned is surprised by his youngest brother, sometimes – he has a gift to read people that seemed to have evaded all the rest of them. 

He takes Benjen on his word, and invites Lady Catelyn to dine privately with him – demands it, really – so that they may discuss the impending arrival of the northern bannermen. He arrives still seething in righteous anger. He greets her curtly, with arguments churning in his mind. But when they sit to eat, it slowly begins to burn away as he notices the way that she barely touches her meal, the way she clenches her fists in her black gown and meets his gaze with a defiance in her eyes that reminds him so much of Lyanna. Frightened, Benjen had said – not suspicious or mistrusting or resentful, but frightened, and something in Ned softens a bit at the way she tries to look so strong and brave despite it. There is a fierceness to her that is not out of place in the north. 

“My lady,” he starts, deliberately keeping his voice as gentle and non-accusing as he can. “I want you to know that I have every intention on fulfilling my brother’s wishes, that I should guide his son until he grows into a man. I would help you as well, if you would let me.” 

“Your brother’s wishes were for his son to inherit his birthright,” Catelyn replies, with a hint of a challenge. “Yet many of my son’s bannermen may wish for you to claim the lordship for yourself.” 

Ned is a little surprised at how forthright she is with her concerns – southron women, in his experience, like to speak in riddles that lead in circles. He has little patience for such games, so it is a relief to hear Catelyn speak plainly to him, and he resolves to pay her same respect. 

“If you knew me at all, my lady, you would know that I would _never_ usurp my own brother’s son,” he says, struggling to keep his voice even, rather than defensive. “I am a second son, and have no interest in power or titles that were never meant to be mine.” 

“But I do not know you, ser,” Lady Catelyn reminds him. Her blue eyes are still wary, but Ned notices that her fingers unclench just a bit in the folds of her skirt, enough that her knuckles turn from white back to pink. “We are strangers, truly.” 

“Then we had best become acquainted,” Ned replies bluntly, “for it is a long time before that boy of yours is a man.” He folds his hands upon the tabletop, leaning forward as though that would better express his sincerity. “But I promise you, until then I will do all I can to protect him, and his birthright.” 

Catelyn’s only response is a curt nod, before she picks her spoon up and takes a bite of the stew. But Ned notices that her lips curl up into the faintest of smiles, and that she eats more readily than she did before. Suddenly, finding common ground with the woman seated across from him does not seem as impossible as Ned thought before. 

\--

Within the next moon turn, the northern lords answer the call to come and swear fealty to the new Lord of Winterfell. Though they somberly greet Lady Catelyn, who holds Robb in her arms at the welcoming feast, Ned cannot help but notice that they are dressed in their finest garbs, bearing gifts and pretty words for the young widow. Each promise of loyalty is more grandiose than the last, and Catelyn accepts them all with a gracious smile and a word of thanks. 

Wendel Manderly brings fresh fish and glass from the Harbor, with the promise that his men will help expand the gardens. Galbart Glover brings the best of wines brought from Dorne, ‘for a southron lady who must miss her home,’ he claims. Jon Umber brings heavy pelts and vows to double his guard between the Wall and Winterfell – the better to deter wildlings seeking southron warmth, so that they may not endanger the little Lord of Winterfell. Rodrick Ryswell brings three strong geldings and two lovely mares for the stables, led through the courtyard by his sons Roger and Rickard, each dressed in fine black doublets slashed with red. The Karstarks bring nothing of use, but waste no time in reminding Catelyn of their close kinship. Cregan and Arthor take turns dancing her across the floor until she excuses herself, laughing, claiming that she must put Robb to bed. 

“You should be far more wary of those men in the hall than you are of me,” Ned tells her when they leave the revelry behind, as she settles Robb into his cradle. The babe fusses for a moment, rubbing sleepily at his eyes, and tossing his head back and forth until Catelyn lays a soothing hand on him, stroking his fine, wispy hair. He settles at his mother’s touch, his heavy eyelids closing as his thumb sneaks into his mouth. “Most of them are good, loyal men, but any one of them would jump at the opportunity to rule the north in your son’s stead, and use him for the benefit of their own house,” Ned finishes, unable to pull his eyes away from his nephew, so small and vulnerable, so in need of protection. 

“I have to make them love me,” Catelyn replies, watching as Robb drifts off to sleep. “More importantly, I have to make them love _Robb_. But do not concern yourself,” she says, giving him a tight, cool smile as she glances up from the cradle to look at him through lowered lashes. “I would never presume to mistake their interest for me, for myself.” 

Ned feels his cheeks flush in his embarrassment, and he hopes that she does not notice. “I did not mean it as an insult,” he says lamely, avoiding her steady gaze. Benjen had called her frightened, and though Ned had balked at the thought, now he cannot help but wonder if life would have been easier if she were more of a simpering, cowering woman. Rather, she faces her fear and the unknown with a ferocity far more suited to a direwolf than a trout. _Perhaps she is a Stark now indeed,_ he thinks wryly. In either case, she is a young woman of only nine-and-ten, mother to the heir of the north, beautiful and now wealthy in her own right, and obviously fertile to have birthed a son in the brief time she shared with Brandon. There are a thousand reasons a man would want her for her own sake, but the words stick in Ned’s throat, far too familiar for what exists between them – their determination to protect the babe currently sleeping between them. 

In his cradle, Robb lets out a cross between a hiccup and a burp, and the frostiness of the moment is briefly thawed when Catelyn laughs, her face softening as she looks down upon the babe. It is easier for Ned to speak truthfully when her guard is lowered, when she appears like the young mother she is rather than like a foe upon the battlefield. “Forgive me, my lady, for my discourtesy,” Ned says quietly. “I wish only to keep Robb safe from those who would use him for his inheritance. I would never allow someone to take advantage of him.” 

Catelyn’s vivid blue eyes are gentler than Ned ever remembers them seeing them before when she looks up at him again, as though she cannot quite shake the affection for her son from her gaze before she looks upon Ned. “I know,” she says softly, and to Ned’s surprise, she reaches for his hand. They have not touched since their greeting at Winterfell’s gates, moons ago, and Ned had not remembered her hand being quite so soft and warm as he finds it to be now. “You have done much for him. I am thankful for it.” A touch of the steeliness he has become so familiar with returns to her voice, but she does not pull back from his grasp. “But do not think I am so easily wooed, ser. As I see it, we have glass to expand the gardens and furs to keep us warm, and they cost me naught but a smile.” 

Ned furrows his brow as he studies her, surprised. “So we do,” he agrees, and he recalls with puzzlement the overly pleased countenances of the northmen in the hall. Each man had left feeling as though he had come out ahead, simply because Catelyn had given them her gratitude, and nothing more. 

Before they were wed, Brandon would boast of his betrothed’s beauty, his kissed-by-fire bride. Ned’s father, on the other hand, had simply found satisfaction in her lineage, in the alliance the match would secure for the north. But now Ned wonders if either of them had spared a thought for her mind, if Brandon had been given the chance to see what a shrewd thinker he had wed. She would have made a fine Lady of Winterfell in truth, a wife any man could both take pride in and come to rely upon. It is a pity that she will never been seen as more than an obstacle that must be dealt with, that any man who sought to wed her would want to stamp out that astuteness of hers in order to advance his own family. He finds it sad, truthfully – she is the sort who should never be made to be less than she is. She had been made for greater things than the life that awaits her; it is little wonder that she finds the duty of finding common ground with a second son so difficult at times. 

“This is a long game we must play,” Catelyn says softly, slipping her finger from little Robb’s iron grip. “I may be but a young girl from the south in their eyes, but nevertheless, I intend to win it.” 

“I do not doubt you will,” Ned replies ruefully, still uncertain how she sees him – is he yet another piece she plans to topple, or an ally to battle beside her? 

The smile she gives him in response is shy, secretive, and strikes right at the center of his chest. Suddenly, Ned cannot fault the men for looking so pleased in the hall – Catelyn may claim she offers naught more than a smile, but there is something in her expression that is a gift unto itself. 

\--

They come to a tentative peace after the bannermen depart, punctuated with careful courtesies in the halls and stiff smiles across the table. It is almost like a waltz, the ways they move around one another seeking to not offend, and Ned never has had a talent for dancing. 

It is wearisome, at times, and he finds much needed respite in the godswood, beneath the sheltering branches of the heart tree. The world is quiet, there, and often Ned kneels and closes his eyes, only to open them a moment later to find that the entire day has passed in a flash. At times he brings the boys with him, each clinging to one of his hands as they take wobbly steps like newborn colts. They are loveable nuisances, rambunctious and curious about the world around them now that they are free to explore it standing up. Those days are spent soothing skinned knees and keeping the red leaves from being stuffed in their mouths rather than in contemplative prayer, but Ned likes the thought that he is introducing them to the gods of the north regardless. 

Catelyn releases Robb to him readily enough on those mornings, but she never joins them beneath the watchful eyes of the weirwood. Shamefully, Ned assumes that she seeks reprieve from the lingering formalities between them as well, that she finds a different sort of peace in the solitude of her chambers. It is only when he returns Robb to his mother’s chambers one afternoon that he notices them – the seven tiny, crudely carved wooden figures above the hearth. It is then that he truly remembers that she keeps different gods, gods as absent from Winterfell as the old gods had been from the Eyrie. Ned had spent a happy childhood in Jon Arryn’s care, but even now, he cannot forget the sad sense of displacement he had felt when he saw that no weirwood would take root – the feeling that no matter how welcome he was made, he did not truly belong. 

Catelyn has the wealth of Winterfell at her disposal, and so Ned finds it strange that she settles for such a little, roughhewn expression of her faith. He wonders if she is simply not a religious woman, but when he inquires of Nan, the old woman tells him that Lady Catelyn spends each morning in prayer before her makeshift altar. It seems such a sad image to Ned, the thought of her kneeling among the ashes and rushes, praying to figurines that could easily fit into her palm. 

It seems the natural thing, to go to Poole and order the start of the construction of a sept. The project will put little strain on Winterfell’s resources – not with the lords of the north so eager to please and impress. Glass is imported from White Harbor, lumber from Bear Island, and with the arrival of the white raven heralding the coming of the spring, building commences. 

Catelyn watches the progress with a furrowed brow. “What are they building?” she demands of Ned, obviously flustered that she does not know the answer for herself, that something so major as construction is happening without her knowledge or consent. She may have relented in letting Ned assist her, but there is little that goes on that she is not aware of, something that Ned now finds admirable rather than irritating. He knows that it is important to her, to handle the daily management of the castle while he handles the politics of the north to the best of his abilities, and it is a task in which she excels. He had asked her about it, one day, and she had told him that much of Riverrun’s household had been left to her care after her mother’s death. It had saddened him, in a strange way – Lyanna had died a child, still, for all her headstrong notions of love, but Catelyn had seemingly had to grow up so quickly. 

There is little in life that is fair, and Ned simply adds that to the count. 

Her face is so frustrated that for a moment, Ned doubts himself – perhaps he should have spoken with her first, and perhaps he has done nothing more than rip open the wound between them, once so raw and now so precariously stitched over. 

“A sept,” he replies briefly, glancing at her out of the corner of the eye to gauge her reaction. Her mouth thins into a tight line, and irritation flutters in his belly – perhaps he is to be lectured for taking such liberties without her consent; perhaps she will scold that he should have consulted with Lord Robb, who certainly would have given his lordly consent as long as he stopped sucking his thumb long enough to grant it. “I thought it only right that you had somewhere to pray to your gods,” he adds, unable to keep the annoyance out of his voice as he turns to face her. 

But when he turns, he regrets his harsh manner, for looking at her full on he realizes that her lips are not thinned in anger; rather, she has drawn her bottom lip between her teeth, nipping lightly, and her eyes are full of tears, making them as bright as sapphires. “Oh,” she breathes, and when she blinks, a tear tracks down her cheek. Ned fights the sudden, absurd urge to reach out and brush it away. “I never wanted to intrude. I know the north keeps to your old gods.” 

“Yes,” he replies, making a concentrated effort to gentle his tone, “but this is your home, too, Catelyn.” She gives him a watery smile and he realizes that she never would have asked this, never would have suggested it, hard as she tries to be the consummate northern lady. She would never deign to suggest the construction of a building so utterly _southron_ in her quest to be deemed worthy of the role the gods have granted her. Suddenly, Ned is glad that he did not consult with her before the building began; he has every suspicion that she would have demurred and told him the entire thing was unnecessary, had he asked. Now, there is no need to refuse, and with all the instructions written in his hand, there is no one who would dare claim that Catelyn sought to replace northern ways with her southron customs. 

“Thank you,” Catelyn says softly. It is not the first time she has thanked him, in the time he has lived in Winterfell, but it is the first time that she sounds truly grateful, without the hint of suspicion lingering in the edges of her voice. She takes his hand between her gloved ones, and gazes at him intently. Droplets cling to her eyelashes and her tears have brought a flush to her cheeks, and all he can do is nod dumbly, caught transfixed at the sight of her. Making her happy brings a strange rush to his head, and he thinks there is little that he would not do to have her look at him that way again. 

The sept takes three moons to construct, but what is built between the two of them that morning lasts much longer. 

\--

Winterfell comes to life with the thaw of the spring, as though the melting snow and budding trees serve as a reminder to the entire north that life must go on. Benjen begins to speak of the Wall, of a life he wishes to lead away from Winterfell, yet Ned cannot bear to see him go, and begs him to wait until the summer, at least. The boys grow, as children are wont to do, going from crawling babes to toddlers on quick legs in seemingly no time at all. They trip over themselves, running through the castle, filling the corridors with their laugher, and it is their presence that helps to soothe the rawness of grief for those lost in the war.

When the boys both pass their third namedays, Ned finds them docile ponies, telling them as sternly as one might address such small lads that he expects them to assist in their care until they are ready to be ridden. Jon nods solemnly, always so eager to please, to show himself worthy of the honor bestowed upon him, but Robb hops from one foot to another and frowns. “Want to ride them now, Papa!” Robb protests, always the louder and more contrary of the two boys, and Ned’s blood freezes in his veins.

“I’m your Uncle Ned, lad,” Ned replies gently, ruffling the mop of thick auburn hair atop Robb’s head to soften any sting his words may carry. Robb’s little brow furrows in confusion, and for that, Ned cannot blame him. At times, he forgets he is not Robb’s father; both boys learned to walk by gripping his fingers, have fallen asleep dozens of times in his arms, and yet one calls him ‘Papa’ and the other must not.

“He is only a little boy. He doesn’t understand,” Catelyn tells him later, when Ned relays the incident to her. Each day is warmer than the last, yet Catelyn still dresses in a warm fur cloak, and her bare hand is buried tightly into the crook of his elbow as they walk through the grounds on their way to the storerooms to check their provisions. The winter had been long, but summer is on the horizon at last. 

They are hailed as they cross the courtyard, and Catelyn raises her hand in greeting, offering a smile to the stewards who bow to them and the guards who salute. She had spoken to Ned once of her determination to make the northern bannermen love her and her son; in working to do so, she has easily won the loyalty and respect of Winterfell’s household, as well. She may be fiercely protective of her son’s claim, but she regards the duties that accompany that birthright with all the devotion one would expect of a Tully. The good of the north is written across her heart, and thus those who serve the Starks in Winterfell have taken her into their affections. There are still those in surrounding holdfasts who speak of the troubles a boy lord brings, who scorn the very idea of a lady serving as regent for her son, but they are little more than whispers of the wind. Catelyn is the sort who is far easier to love than to hate. 

Catelyn has bloomed with the spring, as well. Two years and more have passed since he greeted his good-sister at the gates of Winterfell, yet to Ned she seems younger now than she did that day. With the change of seasons, she has finally cast aside her widow’s weeds, choosing instead gowns of dove gray, of river blue, as though she is coming to life like the land around them, softening as the ground beneath their feet. She abandons the severe coils and braids she had once worn, letting her rich auburn hair spill over her shoulders. _The red rose of Winterfell,_ Glover had called her, hoping to woo with pretty words. Ned may scoff at the courtly games, he cannot find fault with the sentiment. The blue winter roses so famed in the north are beautiful but so fragile, only able to thrive above the Neck, meticulously cultivated and so easily destroyed. Catelyn, he knows, is nowhere near as delicate. 

Her appearance is not all that he has found changed; there is a serenity to her now that she did not have before. He knows that the construction of the sept went a long way towards soothing her insecurities, her fears that he planned to usurp her son – time and maturity have healed the rest. He cannot imagine the cold and suspicious woman he had encountered that first day taking the news that her son had called him ‘Papa’ so smoothly. In truth, Ned knows he mostly has the acceptance of the household, of the north, to thank for that, but at times he likes to lie to himself, to pretend that Catelyn, too, forgets that he is not Robb’s father, that this is not what they have always been. Fate has cast them both lonely lots, and there is something in that solitude that is binding, especially now that he finally feels they are fighting together and not against one another. 

Even those fleeting fantasies leave Ned nearly sick with guilt, however. Brandon’s life had been so unfairly short as it is; to think of Brandon’s wife and Brandon’s son as his own, however briefly, to effectively mentally erase his own brother’s existence, is the epitome of selfishness. 

Yet more often than not, his guilt mingles with longing in a stomach-churning combination, when he comes across Catelyn helping Robb splash in the hot springs, her skirts immodestly hiked up over her pale legs to keep the fabric dry, or when he enters the solar – Brandon’s solar, the one he and Catelyn both use to conduct business – and finds her bent over the accounting with a little furrow in her brow and her auburn hair spilling across the desk. She smiles to see him, now, and in his darker moments Ned cannot help but wonder if things would be easier were she still frightened and resentful of him. But it is not in Catelyn’s nature to be afraid – she is brave and beautiful, dutiful and determined, stubborn and still infuriating at times, but he wouldn’t want her as any less than she is. 

He should not want her at all. 

She loves him as a good-sister may love her good-brother and he should be glad of that. From the moment he arrived at Winterfell, he has asked more of her than she has wanted to give. He sat across from her and demanded her trust, and had told himself that it was for the good of Winterfell and for Brandon’s son – and perhaps it had been. But to long for more than her sisterly affection would be solely for his own selfish desires, and he will never ask it of her. Catelyn is Brandon’s, as Robb is Brandon’s, as Winterfell is Brandon’s, as everything in Ned’s world has always, always been Brandon’s. 

It is difficult to remember that at times, when Robb reaches his arms up and calls him Papa, when a cold wind blowing from the Wall makes Catelyn shiver and she presses a bit more firmly against his side as they walk. 

The coming of spring heralds the surprise arrive of lords from the south – from the Riverlands – bearing fresh fruit and newly sprung herbs, bringing the best wishes of the Lord Paramount of the Trident to his beloved daughter, the Lady of Winterfell. They bring musicians to entertain, wine by the barrel, and fresh fish from the rivers, and with that they bring a light to Catelyn’s eyes that looks an awful lot like home. 

Ned hates them all. 

He resents the lords from the Riverlands far more than he ever did the lords of the north. Glover, Ryswell, Manderly, Umber – they may have the best interests of their own houses in mind when they courted Lady Catelyn, but Ned does not doubt that they had spared a thought for the north, as well, that they had worried about the repercussions of having a babe as their lord. The men of the north knew of the winters, of the dangers that lurked beyond the Wall, of the faith of the old gods. Had Ryswell himself not been the first to whisper to Ned that perhaps it would be better suited if Ned himself took the lordship, along with his daughter’s hand in marriage now that she had been so sadly widowed? Had Manderly not called Ned ‘my lord’ until Ned himself had corrected him? Certainly, they had envisioned what raising the next Lord of Winterfell would do for them and theirs, but Ned is also sure that most of them would have tried to raise a good and fair liege lord, regardless. 

But these men from the Riverlands…it is a power grab, and nothing more. They are strange men from the south, who know nothing of life above the Neck and yet seek to grasp titles and honors for themselves. And worst of all, Catelyn seems to delight in their presence, in their tales of the blooming trees that stretch over the Trident, even as Blackwood and Bracken jump in to argue over whose land those trees grow. She laughs and dances with their heirs, and it does not look like a duty at all. Rather, she looks like a young woman ready to fall in love, and Ned wonders if her confidence has spread into madness, if she would dare spurn her northern suitors for a southron lord. 

He sits at the head table with a face like thunder, his cup of mead untouched and certainly unraised despite the numerous toasts that have been raised. He watches as one man, and then another, twirls Catelyn about the floor, her skirts swinging and her loose hair flying in all directions. He cannot help but wonder which she prefers, and he grips the mug of his full drink harder and harder as his choice alights first upon one lord and then a different one. 

Catelyn catches his eye only once, her cheeks flushed and eyes sparkling with laughter, but even from across the hall Ned can see the way that her eyebrows raise and her mouth tightens in irritation as she takes in his undoubtedly sour expression. From that moment, she pointedly ignores him as she charms their guests, and with each smile, each laugh from her lips, he feels his mood darken further. 

She does not confront him until later that evening, after he has checked in on the boys. Despite the late hour, they are not sleeping – the music from the hall has drifted up to their chambers and they are overexcited at the prospect of visitors, eager to be a part of the bustle. “Go to sleep,” he orders, more gruffly than he intends. “They shall be gone within the fortnight.” He has no idea as to how long the men of the Riverlands plan to take advantage of Winterfell’s hospitality, but he plans to do everything in his power to make sure that their visits end in all haste. 

Catelyn is waiting for him in the corridor, the dim torches that light the hall making shadows dance across her face, stretching her scowl further than it should go. “Are they well?” she asks in the clipped tone, and Ned nods curtly. She crosses her arms over her chest, looking at him expectedly, and Ned finds it easier to look anywhere but at her. 

“Do you care to explain your abhorrent behavior this evening?” she asks, with the same lecturing tone that she uses on Robb when he has misbehaved. That coupled with her disapproving frown and arched eyebrow only serves to irritate him more, and he stalks several steps away from the door to the boys’ chamber before turning to face her again. 

“If you are so desperate for a husband, you would be better served with one of Manderly’s sons. They’re fond of the revelry you seem so partial to – they even worship your Seven. At least they are northerners, unlike these fools who cross the Neck for the first time, hoping to claim it.” 

Catelyn stares at him blankly for a long moment. Normally Ned is far more comfortable with silence than speech, but now he resents every passing second in which she does not deny his accusation. “How dare you speak so rudely of our guests,” she hisses, daring a glance back at the boys’ door before taking a step closer. “Of my father’s men!” 

“You do not deny it, then?” he demands, ignoring her reprimand. “You would put some fancy southron lord in Brandon’s rightful seat? In _Robb’s_ rightful seat?” 

“No!” she exclaims. Her cheeks are flushed again, but this time with anger rather than delight, and her eyes narrow to slits. “How could you suggest that I would ever put _anyone_ above my son?”

“Then perhaps it would be best to exercise a bit more restraint, less you give the wrong suggestion,” he seethes, his fists curled into balls. 

“The wrong _suggestion?_ ” Catelyn echoes incredulously, her hands spread wide in her frustration. “And what would that be, Ned? That I like to dance? That I enjoy music?” She lets out an angry huff under her breath, turning her back and walking several paces away before whirling again to face him. “Do you expect me to be alone forever?” she demands. “Robb will reach his majority when I am barely five-and-thirty – what should happen to me then? And for now I am still young. Shall I never wed? Shall I never hold another child in my arms?” 

“That is the fate you cast me to!” Ned snaps without thinking. “A second son raising his nephew – what could I ever offer a wife? He is your son – if I must sacrifice my life to make him a proper lord, certainly you should do the same!” 

“I never asked it of you!” Catelyn exclaims, her blue eyes filling with tears. She fists a hand over her heart, as though in physical pain, and even from his distance, Ned can tell that she is trembling. “If you want to wed, then wed! If you want to leave, I will not stand in your way! I did not bring you here, and I am not keeping you here!” 

“No,” Ned answers bitterly. The words are like poison that he spits from his mouth, thinking of nothing but freeing himself from their grasp. “You did not. Brandon did. If you had, I would have left years ago.” 

As soon as he says it, he wishes he could call the words back. He watches as they hit their mark, as Catelyn’s face goes ashen and then the tears that had filled her eyes spill down her pale face. She opens her mouth, as though to give a cruel barb of her own, but no sound comes from between her lips. He has never known Catelyn to be struck speechless; she is the consummate lady, with a ready wit, always prepared with a clever turn of phrase. But he has stunned her, in the worst way possible, and instead she snaps her mouth shut again and turns on her heel. Her footsteps echo off the corridor walls as she walks away from him. 

He knows he should go after her. He could take her into his arms and apologize for being the fool that they both know him as. He could kiss the tears from her cheeks and beg her pardon and promise that he would never leave, that he had no desire to take a wife, that there could be no other woman other than her in his life. But Ned has never been one to wear his emotion on his sleeve, and he has no doubt that the words would get tangled on his tongue. 

So instead he watches her go, and stands in the corridor long after the sounds of her feet on the flagstones have faded. 

\--

Ned has every intention of going to apologize in the morning, but with their wine and herbs and fruit, the lords of the RIverlands have brought sickness with them, and of that particular gift, Ned is the blessed recipient. 

It does not afflict him alone – two kitchen maids are confined to their beds, and Ser Rodrik has fallen ill, as well. The boys are well, Luwin assures him, as are Benjen and Lady Catelyn, and all measures are being taken to prevent the spread of disease, to confine those stricken until the worst has passed. 

That is the last thing that Ned remembers, before the worst descends upon him. 

He lingers in the space between sleep and wake, haunted by living nightmares, ghosts that come to taunt him. He tosses his head on the pillow, as hot as he had been those days in Dorne, and above the roaring in his ears he can hear Lyanna’s voice pleading with him, _Promise me, Ned._ Again and again he promises, silently moving chapped lips that crack with each movement so that he tastes the tang of his own blood on his tongue. 

Darkness falls, though whether it is through nightfall or the drawing of the drapes, Ned knows not. As the blinding light fades, so do Lyanna’s pleas, to be replaced by her laughter, tinkling like a faint bell just outside his window. Ned goes to rise, to see her there, but a hand pushes him back to the feather mattress, holds him firm there no matter how hard he struggles. _Fight, damn you!_ Brandon’s voice urges him, and the beat of horse’s hooves accompany his apparition. 

_Come out to die!_ his brother’s voice screams, wild with rage, and at the same time, Ned hears Catelyn’s voice begging him not to, telling him that he must not die. The spectres dance around his bed, living and dead together, cajoling him each in turn as he thrashes his head left and right. Somehow he manages to disappoint them all in the end, he thinks miserably – Lyanna, Brandon, Catelyn, his father, Jon and Robert, the two little boys left to his charge. 

“I’m sorry,” he rasps, though he knows not to whom he speaks. He only finds peace when a cup is pressed to his lips and everything finally, mercifully, goes dark. 

He does not know how much time passes before he awakens with a clear mind again – the sunlight is streaming through his open window, but it could be merely the afternoon or three days hence, for all that Ned remembers of the time in which he was wracked with fever. 

A soft sigh makes him loll his head on the pillow, expecting to see the maester on the other side of the bed, but instead he sees Catelyn, asleep. She is seated in a chair near the foot of the bed, but her head has fallen forward onto the mattress, her hair spread like a red fan and her cheek pressed to the furs. She shivers in her sleep, and Ned would go shut the window against the icy northern wind if every muscle in his body did not feel heavy as lead. He doubts he can even sit up, much less stand and cross the room – but if he could, he would certainly do so for her comfort. 

He is shocked to see her there, after they had parted so angrily, after he had spoken to her so unkindly. He would not have been surprised to learn that she had wished for his death, upon hearing of his illness. It seems impossible that his fevered imaginings of Catelyn mopping his brow, whispering to him that he must live while her tears splashed upon his face, could have been based in reality. They were merely a result of his guilt, merely a manifestation of the desires that he tries so hard to stamp out. 

He cannot reach her from his reclined position, and he is far too weary to move, so he settles for watching her until she stirs with a little murmur, as though the weight of his gaze has roused her. Her eyes flutter open, hazy with sleep, and she lifts her head to scan the room with a touch of confusion. 

After a moment, she meets his gaze, and everything that has transpired between them weighs heavily upon them both, the words they had spoken in the days past alone enough to fill the empty chamber. “You’re awake,” she says, her voice frustratingly even – he cannot tell if she is pleased or aggrieved. Her face is pale, and there are circles under her eyes that make Ned feel both glad and guilty, that she has perhaps worried for him. 

She leans over, resting the back of her hand on his forehead, and this time, her voice is undoubtedly relieved as she adds, “Your fever has broken.” She releases a breath in a rush, and sits down again, this time perching on the bed by his side, like a mother will hover over a sick child. It is entirely inappropriate, that she should be here in his bedroom, alone, and Ned cannot help but wonder what Luwin thinks – the maester has always been loyal and dutiful, but Ned would have no one breathe a word of rumor or slander against Catelyn. 

But perhaps it shall remain a secret, for at least at the moment, Luwin is missing. “The maester…” Ned murmurs, his voice hoarse from disuse. He winces and licks his dry lips, and Catelyn crosses the room to pour him some water. She helps him to drink it, supporting his head at the back of his neck like a babe and holding the cup to his lips, and Ned downs it greedily, nearly choking in the process. 

“Careful,” Catelyn cautions, pulling the cup back so that he is forced to stop to breathe. “Maester Luwin is sleeping, at my insistence. I told him I would fetch him should anything change. He was at your side for two days.” Suddenly, there are tears in her eyes, and Ned is shamefully reminded of how he made her cry in the corridor. “You were very ill, Ned.” 

“But you…are well?” he asks, ashamed at how much a few words exerts him. “The boys?” 

“Luwin has worked wonders,” Catelyn says with a watery smile. “He has more than earned his rest. We are all fine, even those who were sick. Not a one was lost.” Cautiously, her hand goes to his hair, stroking damp strands off his forehead. Her fingers are soft and cool, and Ned’s eyes droop closed lazily at the feel of them. “You were the one we worried for.” 

He hesitates, gazing up at her. “Catelyn…what I said…” 

She moves her hand, pressing her finger against his lips to silence him. “Hush. We do not need to speak of it now. It can wait until you are stronger.” She tries to smile, but the expression falters, and she bites her lip. 

With what little strength remains to him, Ned shakes his head. “I’m sorry,” he tells her, his voice as firm as he can manage. “I did not mean it.” 

Her hand slides along his cheek, over the bristles of his beard. She looks surprised at his apology, and her lips tremble with some emotion that he cannot quite decipher. She sinks down beside him once more, and Ned can feel the warmth of her leg against his side, even through the layers of her skirts. “Do not leave me,” she whispers, so softly that he must tilt his head to hear her. “I could not bear to lose you, too.” 

_Too._ She is a woman who has been left before, in a land she did not know, with only strangers around her. Those in Winterfell may know and love her now, but she is still a southron lady trying her best to rule a northern land. Brandon had left her for family, for duty, - Ned had threatened to do so out of selfishness and jealousy. Shame rushes through his body with the same ferocity that the fever had, and at that moment, he vows to be a better man. “I won’t,” he promises, his voice a harsh rasp, and his fingers find her own, entwining in a desperate grasp. 

He has left her speechless again; he can see her swallow hard against a lump in her throat. To his surprise, she leans forward, laying her head down upon his chest, over the beat of his heart. Her hair smells sweet and tickles his nose, and it is only his exhaustion that prevents him from burying his face against those auburn locks. He is even too weary to raise his arm and put it around her, the way that he longs to do, the way he has imagined. And he has imagined this moment nearly as much, and with as much guilt, as he has imagined kissing her, making love to her - the repose of lying quietly with the woman he loves. 

“Cat…” he whispers, in a moment of weakness, brought upon him by his illness, by having her so close, where he can feel every inch of her. 

Fast asleep again with her head tucked beneath his chin, she does not reply. 

\--

He is confined to bed for another two days before Luwin is satisfied that he is suitably recovered, and it takes Ned another three before he finds himself outside of Catelyn’s chambers in the dead of night. It is far too late for a social visit, and in all likelihood she has gone to bed long ago. He should not disturb her, especially when he is not even certain what he wishes to say to her, but perhaps he is still not completely recovered from his illness – perhaps his mind is still clouded from the milk of the poppy. Whatever madness has brought him here, he raises his hand and knocks on the door before he can change his mind. 

“Ned,” she says with obvious surprise as she opens the door. She is dressed for bed, with an open dressing gown thrown over her night shift, her thick auburn hair loosely plaited over her shoulder. Behind her, a fire crackles cheerfully in the hearth, illuminating the curve of her body through the thin robe. Ned swallows hard. “Are you well?” Catelyn adds, concerned, and her hand flutters up to his cheek. He knows she is only checking for signs of fever, but it takes all his restraint not to lean into her touch. 

“I am,” he assures her. “May I come in?” he asks, wondering even as he does so if it is a mistake. Catelyn raises her eyes curiously, but steps aside so that he may enter, closing the door firmly behind him. 

She waits for him to speak, but Ned has never done well with speaking openly, from the heart. He has rarely needed to – he has spent his life with first Brandon, and then Robert, who were both loud and boisterous and demanding enough that Ned never needed to ask for anything. Their exuberance filled whatever room they were in, and Ned worked to be sure that he fit into the little space that remained. Long ago, Howland had dubbed him the Quiet Wolf, and that is all he knows how to be. 

He busies his hands, pouring himself a cup of water from the jug sitting on the table by the fireside. It is easier, somehow, to speak when he is not looking at her. “I do not want you to marry any of them,” he finally blurts. “Riverlander or northman. Not because of Robb, but because you are too good for the likes of them. All of them.” He stiffens, anticipating her angry reaction, her demand that he explain himself – but to his surprise, it does not come. 

Her bare feet are nearly silent on the rushes of the floor, and suddenly, like a ghost, she is at his side. Her hand tentatively brushes his sleeve, following along his bicep and up to his shoulder. Her fingertips dance against his neck, a touch far more intimate than her almost motherly gesture at the door, and at that he has no choice but to look at her. 

Her eyes are impossibly blue in the light from the fire, or, Ned thinks, perhaps he has just never seen them this closely before. His mouth goes dry at the expression in them, as he is struck with the realization that _she knows_ , a thought that is both relieving and terrifying all at once. He is glad that he shall not be forced to try and put his feelings into words, and yet he hates that he is seemingly so transparent, that she can know at a glance what he is thinking. Ned may struggle with verbalizing his emotions, but that Catelyn knows him so well that she needs nothing more than a glance at his face is intimidating. 

“Ned,” she murmurs, his name falling from her lips in a manner soothing and exasperated at the same time, as she pushes her finger against the furrow in his brow until she has smoothed it away. From there, Catelyn’s hand slips behind his neck and she tips her face up to him – he could kiss her like this, perhaps she is waiting for it, perhaps she _wants_ him to kiss her, and Ned is fairly certain that he has never wanted to do anything more in his entire life. It has been a long time since he has kissed a woman, and even longer since he has kissed one that he truly wanted, one who wanted him in return. 

He takes her face between his hands, his thumbs resting against the delicate bones of her jaw. He can feel as well as hear her breath hitch, and she takes the smallest of steps closer to him, yet Ned cannot bring himself to close that little remaining distance, the space that seems the size of his brother’s ghost. 

“You’re Brandon’s wife,” he whispers, and he watches as Catelyn’s face clouds over, the corners of her lips twitching down into a frown. He wants to soothe it away, the way she did for him, and yet he seems frozen in his spot, where he can feel her pulse beat against his fingertip in tempo to his own heart. 

“Brandon has been dead for three years,” Catelyn reminds him softly, pinning him with a searing gaze. “I have been a widow far longer than I was ever a wife.” 

“I know,” Ned murmurs, but all he can recall are the visions that had plagued him in his fevered state, of Brandon riding beneath his window, alternately laughing and screaming _come out to die_ with each pass. Ned could not save Brandon, could not even be with him in his final moments as he was for Lyanna. Brandon will never know his son, will never learn to be a lord, will never grow old. Ned already has more than his brother ever will, far too many things that should have been Brandon’s to begin with – his conscience tells him that he must not try to take Catelyn, too, no matter how badly he wants her. 

He wonders, not for the first time, if Brandon had loved her. His brother had never said. Ned is not sure which would be easier to bear. 

He never wonders if Catelyn had loved Brandon. Everyone had loved Brandon. 

“How long must we punish ourselves for surviving?” Catelyn whispers, and Ned startles, surprised – though he should know better at this point - as her astuteness. Her eyes are beseeching, and he runs his thumb along the high curve of her cheekbone. _We_ , she had said. Catelyn had worn her widow’s weeds for two years, far longer than decorum required. Yet she has come back to life in the spring, and there are parts of Ned still dead and frozen, buried beneath the frost of the north and the chill of grief. Perhaps he will always carry that weight with him, the burden of being the one to live, of wondering why the gods would take Brandon and spare him. 

She pulls back slightly, so that she may look up and study his face more intently, his hands grasped between her own. “You could have wed me, when you came to Winterfell,” she says, almost casually, tilting her head to the side. “Certainly, I am sure it was suggested to you, probably many times over. Why didn’t you?” 

Ned frowns, confused by the sudden question. Certainly, a man or two had mentioned the idea years ago, when expressing their concern over Robb’s youth, and even Maester Luwin had tactfully suggested that it might be the easiest solution to the quandary they had found themselves in during those early days, when both saw slights in every action. But back then, he had never truly considered the idea, not with the cold, suspicious woman who had met him at the gates. “I never wanted to wed an unwilling woman.” 

“That is why?” she asks softly, her grip tightening imperceptibly. “Not because you do not want me?”

He looks at her now, so close and beautiful. Her open dressing robe seems to almost beckon for him to slip his hands between the folds, to feel the curves of her body through the thin fabric of her sleeping shift. Her lips are parted and her cheeks are flushed, whether from the warm of the fire or the heat of desire, the color spreading down her long throat before disappearing into her neckline, and Ned cannot help but wonder how far it goes. His throat is dry, and he has to clear it before answering her. “No. Never that,” he whispers roughly, and Catelyn smiles at him, an almost shy smile that lights up her entire face. 

“I am willing now,” she tells him simply, and he does not know what to say. 

She brings his hand to her lips, pressing a soft kiss against the inside of his palm. The gesture inadvertently pulls him closer, and when she steps into the width of his body again and turns her face back up to his, this time he cannot resist. 

Kissing her brings the same dizzying relief he had felt from his first drink of water after his fever broke. Her lips are warm and soft and a little chapped, reminding Ned of the way she bites her bottom lip when she is nervous. He wonders if she had done so while sitting at his bedside, waiting for him to awaken. The first touch is gentle, hesitant, cautious as they tread into unfamiliar waters, but when Catelyn makes a soft sound against his mouth, parting her lips, he pulls his fingers from her grasp so that he can wrap his arms around her, his hands spread wide against her back. It feels as though he cannot bring her close enough, cannot embrace her tightly enough, and that somehow, she will slip through his grasp. He can taste the tang of tart Dornish red on her lips, and just the thought of where the wine came from makes his jealousy surge once more. 

With a gasp for air, he pulls back from her mouth, and Catelyn makes a disapproving murmur against his jaw. He looks down at her, and she gazes back silently, her eyes cloudy with desire and her lips swollen from his kiss. There is a part of him that had expected to see disappointment in her face, that had feared she sought a replacement for Brandon and found him sorely lacking, yet he can find no trace of such in her expression. Relieved, he kisses her forehead, her eyelids, her cheek, wishing it were possible to kiss her everywhere at once. She guides him back to her lips with a hand clutched at the back of his neck, and if their first kiss had been tentative and nervous, this one is hungry and a bit desperate as her tongue slides along his and her grip tightens in his hair. 

“Catelyn…” Ned whispers against her lips, his heart full of something he can’t quite articulate. “Cat…” His fingers catch in the plait of her hair, working the strands free, letting the locks spill silky and loose over his palm. He drops his mouth to her throat, kissing beneath her jaw, nipping at the juncture of neck and shoulder, and her answering moan shoots straight to his cock. She rocks her hips against his and his eyes instinctively slam shut, his grip tightening on her body. His hands slide down the length of her back, cupping under her bottom and pulling her up against him, seeking some sort of relief. “Forgive me,” he pants against her neck even as she pushes into him, grinding her hips against his, the sensation so pleasurable that his eyes roll back into his head. 

She shakes her head violently, pulling his head to hers again so that their lips crash together. Blindly, he walks her backwards until she bumps against the warm wall, and he lifts her, grasping under her thighs, desperate to be closer. Her shift bunches up between them, and her skin feels smooth as silk against the rough pads of his fingers. He wonders if he will leave bruises on her pale skin – part of him is dismayed at the thought and thinks she should be treated as fragile glass, yet there is another part that is aroused at the idea of leaving her marked as his own. His cock is almost painfully hard in his breeches, and when she winds her arms and legs around him, he thinks he might come just like this, like a green boy. “To the bed,” she gasps, her thighs tightening at his waist, and Ned moans against her shoulder, overcome from the sensation and her words. 

Yet still, he hesitates, afraid to push too far, afraid of becoming nothing more than a regret in the sobering light of day. He told himself long ago that he would never again ask more than she was willing to give. But it is all too easy to imagine her, naked and willing beneath him, all too tempting, to think how it would feel to hold her without the little clothing that remains between them, to sink inside her and lose himself in the warmth of her. 

Catelyn’s hand slides down his chest, between their bodies, where they are pressed so intimately together. She slips her hand into his breeches, her fingers wrapping around his cock, and a guttural groan escapes his lips. “Please,” she whispers, and Ned thinks there is nothing in the world he could deny her at that moment. That her desires are his own is only a lucky happenstance. 

He carries her to the bed in a few quick strides, depositing her in the center. She wriggles from her smallclothes while he yanks off his boots and shirt, and unlaces his breeches, unable to tear his gaze away. “Hurry,” she pants and he climbs over her, kissing the hollow of her throat while sliding her shift off her shoulders, tugging it down until her breasts are free. He takes her nipple in his mouth, laving it with his tongue, and Catelyn cries out, throwing her head back so that her hair falls across the pillows, a wave of crimson in the dim light. 

“Ned,” she murmurs, arcing her body up into his touch, her fingers tangling in the back of his hair. He can feel the slick of her sex, warm against his thigh, and his heart leaps into his throat as he reaches down to touch her. He has lain with girls before, but not many – he is no Robert, no _Brandon_ , and he wants so badly to please her, to show her how he feels through gesture when he fails so miserably in speech more often than not. She moans and pushes up against his hand, her long fingers curling around his wrist as he strokes her with long, languid touches, his thumb tracing lazy circles as his fingers slip inside her. Her eyes flutter closed and she draws her lip between her teeth, and despite the fact that she is nearly naked beneath him, her shift bunched up and forgotten around her middle, he cannot bear to look away from her face. 

“Gods,” he whispers as she tosses her head, a breathy sigh escaping her lips as she comes apart around his fingers. He bends down to kiss her again, harder and deeper, pressing her into the feather mattress with his hands braced on either side of her head. She moans against his mouth, her hands grasping his jaw as their tongues dance, before her fingers slide to his shoulders, pressing against the muscles at the back of his neck. Her legs come back up around him, her ankles linked at the small of his back, and then he can feel her, warm and wet and ready against his cock. Before he can think and doubt again, he is inside of her, and it feels so good that he has to hold himself still for a moment. 

Catelyn arches beneath him and he shudders, his knuckles turning white as he grips the soft feather pillow. Her fingers trace up and down the knobs of his spine before sliding down the length of his arm, and instinctively, he reaches out to grab her hand, to lace their fingers together. She blinks, seemingly surprised, but then she smiles in a way that twists his heart, and somehow then, it is easier to breathe, and he begins to move – slowly at first, but then with a building rhythm. 

Catelyn is blessedly anything but quiet and subdued beneath him, her hips lifting up to meet his thrusts, her fingers tightening in his grip, her other hand grasping at the tightening muscles of his back as she urges him on, breathing in his ear, telling him to go harder, deeper, until he is reaching back to pull her legs further up his back so he can do just that. She muffles a loud cry against his shoulder, her teeth scraping against his skin, and then it is a race against himself, to make her come again before he can hold back no longer. He slips his hand back between their slickened bodies, finding the small nub at the top of her sex, touching her in tempo to the rock of his hips. 

He swallows her cry when she tightens around his cock, kissing her wildly everywhere he can reach – her mouth, her jaw, her neck, the tops of her breasts. He hooks his elbow beneath her knee, pulling her leg up to her chest to change the angle, and from there it only takes a few more strokes before he is spilling inside her, his body shuddering with blissful weariness. He collapses on top of her, gasping against her neck, and her arms come up tight around him, holding him close even as his cock begins to soften and slips from her. For a moment, the world is silent, and Ned wishes he could simply remain there forever, in her fierce embrace, their bodies languid and fitting together just so. 

But soon – far too soon – he rolls aside, mindful of his weight, his heart pounding and his breathing still hard. Beside him, Catelyn adjusts her shift again, much to his disappointment – pulling the top back up and smoothing down the wrinkled bottom before reaching for the furs with a shiver, tugging them up to her neck, obscuring her body from his sight. 

Uncertainty gnaws at his gut, and he wonders if she already regrets what they have done, if she wishes for him to leave. Slowly he sits up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. He had not even bothered to remove his breeches, overeager as a boy of six-and-ten lying with a girl for the first time, and he stands to hoist them back up over his hips. 

“Where are you going?” He turns to face Catelyn, her eyes troubled as she watches him from beneath the furs. 

“I…” he trails off, uncertain, the laces of his breeches in his hands. It is a simple question, but he has no answer for her. Wherever he had planned on going – back to his chambers, to the godswood to pray for guidance – would not be the place that he truly wishes to be. 

“You said you would not leave me,” she reminds him quietly, and his heart stills in his chest, aching at the raw vulnerability in her voice. 

Slowly, he climbs back into the bed, taking one of her cool hands in his own, pressing it against the warmth of his chest. She sighs in pleasure and shifts closer to him, so that her head is pillowed against his arm. He leaves his share of the furs pushed to the end of the bed, but he brings her close, one hand splayed against the dip of her waist and the other curled about her head, running lazy furrows through her hair. 

“I won’t,” he promises again, and he presses his lips against her forehead, lingering for a long moment. 

It is nearly dawn when she falls asleep in his arms, and the next day may herald the start of summer. 

The winters will come, as they always do, but Winterfell will stand. They will survive.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed - feedback is always appreciated! :)


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